Stempel 
Finished  Web 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


THE 

FINISHED    WEB. 


A    NOVEL 

BY  M.  G.  T. 


\E\V   ORLEANS: 

CURRENT  Tories   PUULISHIXG    Co 

1892. 


EnUrcil  according  to  Act  of  Conyrcab,  in  tlic  \car  iSi-', 

Hy  M.  G.  T.  STEMPKL, 
In  the  office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  \Va»hini:t<Mi. 


DEDICATION. 


To  one  whose  love  for  me  shall  last, 
Till  lighter  passions  long  have  passed- 

'•  A\V   .\\OTHER." 


PS 


THE  FINISHED  WEB. 


BY    M.    G.    T. 


CHAPTER  I. 

Miss    Margaret   Stanhill,  only  daughter  of  one 
of  San  Francisco's  millionaires,  was  feeling  just  a 
£2   little  low-spirited.  Yesterday  she  arrived  from  the 
**    East  with    her   father,  and    the  home-coming  had 
>-    saddened  her.  There  had  been  no  one  to  welcome 
£    her  but  the  servants.  This  fine  old  house,  as  com 
plete  in  all  details  as  taste  and  money  could  make 
it,  had  depressed  her.     She  was  not  sure  that  she 
liked    elegance.     The   gardens   around  the  house 
•y?    provoked  her ;  the  borders  and  beds  were  so  pain- 
<8    fully     regular.       She      preferred      old-fashioned 
o  gardens    with  a  little    of    everything   growing   in 
them  ;  and  with  rose  bushes  that  were  not  so  fash 
ionably  trimmed. 

Then   the   neighboring  houses    tired  her ;  they 

\t    were  all  so  very  big.   Everything  seemed  new  and 

O    strange.     She  had  left  it  all  when  she  was  5  years 

1    old,  and  she  was  20  now.     Her  life  there  did  not 

'•    seem    to   belong  to    her.     Only  two  things  could 

i]    she  remember  of  it — her  mother  and  her  mother's 

love  for  herself.     The  last  time  she  had  seen  her 

mother  had  been  just  before  she  left  home.  How 

clearly   she    remembered    it !     .She    thrilled  even 


449909 


0  THK  F1MS1IK1)   \VKK. 

now  as  she  recalled  the  fondness  of  the  embrace, 
the  tenderness  of  the  kiss,  that  last  embrace,  that 
last  kiss  ! 

"  Don't  forget  to  love  me,"  her  mother  had 
whispered,  "  and  don't  forget  to  be  good  to  your 
brother,  my  little  Pearl." 

Her  mother's  eyes  had  been  large  and  dark  and 
very  sad.  They  often  haunted  her.  She  had 
always  wished  some  one  would  talk  to  her  about 
her  mother.  Several  times  she  had  spoken  of  her 
to  her  father,  but  he  had  never  answered  her.  She 
had  not  resented  this.  With  a  woman's  tender 
ness  she  had  said  to  herself,  "I  low  well  he  loved 
her !  He  can  not  bear  to  speak  of  her  after  all 
these  years !  " 

From^'Frisco  she  had  been  taken  East  and 
placed  in  a  Convent.  There  she  was  completely 
separated  from  the  brother  whom  her  mother  had 
bidden  her  be  good  to.  He  was  then  three  years 
younger  than  herself.  She  had  never  heard  from 
him  during  all  these  years.  She  had  not  even  seen 
a  picture  of  him,  nor  had  she  seen  her  father  often 
while  she  was  at  school. 

After  having  graduated  she  went  to  Europe  to 
be  "finished  off."  This  period  of  her  life  had 
been  particularly  delightful ;  it  was  her  first  sight 
of  the  world. 

Six  months  ago  she  had  returned  to  New  York 
City.  Her  father  met  her  there  and  treated  her 
with  the  utmost  care  and  consideration.  She  had 
been  given  a  splendid  suite  of  rooms,  a  bank  ac 
count,  and  was  introduced  into  society. 


TIIK  FINISHED  WEB.  / 

Margaret  Stanhill  would  have  been  called  very 
pretty  under  any  circumstances,  as  it  was  she 
became  the  reigning  beauty  of  the  season. 

She  was  a  charming  girl.  A  blonde,  well 
formed,  with  sweet  modest  ways.  She  had 
various  accomplishments,  not  the  smallest  of 
which  was  a  knack  of  making  friends  with  her 
own  sex. 

Women  seemed  to  love  her  naturally.  They 
were  never  jealous  of  her,  for  in  no  case  did  she 
trv  to  supplant  them. 

Of  men  she  did  not  think  very  well. 

Her  most  intimate  friend,  the  chaperone  with 
whom  she  had  been  abroad,  advocated  woman's 
rights.  Perhaps  Margaret  had  inherited  some  of 
her  ideas. 

She  had  very  decided  ideas  of  her  own,  how 
ever,  and  did  not  feel  greatly  impressed  with  the 
"beaux"  who  were  prepared  to  worship  at  her 
shrine. 

At  the  end  of  the  season  she  had  grown  weary 
of  society  and  rejoiced  when  her  father  set  the 
day  for  their  return  home. 

She  had  expected  to  see  her  brother  when  she 
arrived.  She  had  pictured  their  meeting  so  often 
of  late. 

With  her  father  she  had  never  felt  altogether 
at  her  ease.  He  treated  her  kindly,  but  he  was  so 
cool  and  crisp  in  his  manner.  Why  did  he  not 
talk  to  her  of  her  brother?  Could  it  be  that  the 
boy  had  angered  him  in  som:e  way? 


TIU-;  I-IMSIIKP  \VI-;B. 

That  noon  Margaret  and  her  father  lunched 
together. 

"  Are  you  comfortable,  my  dear?  "  he  asked, 
and  his  tone  was  unusually  affectionate.  "Can 
I  do  anything  to  add  to  your  happiness  in  any 
way?  "  Quick  to  catch  the  tender  note,  Marga 
ret  answered  impulsively: 

"  When  shall  I  see  Valance,  father?  " 

"Your  brother  is  at  school,"  her  father  said, 
coldly  and  shortly.  ''  Perhaps  if  you  are  here  in 
the  summer,  you  can  see  him." 

CHAPTER  II. 

In  quite  a  different  part  of  'Frisco,  in  a  shabby 
little  furnished  room,  was  another  woman.  She 
was  writing  in  an  old-fashioned  diary. 

"  Fifteen  years!  lam  growing  weary  of  liv 
ing  in  hope!  What  hope  have  I  anyway?  To 
day  I  read  in  the  Society  notes  that  the  beautiful 
Miss  Stanhill  had  returned  to  'Frisco.  My  little 
Margaret,  my  little  Pearl!  How  long  ago  it 
seems  since  I  last  kissed  her!  I  can  hear  her 
father's  voice  even  now,  saying  sternly:  'Go! 
You  shall  never  see  your  children  again!  For 
the  sake  of  my  own  name,  which  you  bear,  I  will 
not  expose  you,  but  if  you  ever  dare  approach  to 
make  yourself  known  to  your  children  I  will 
brand  you  as  an  infamous  woman.  They  shall 
be  taught  that  you  are  dead.'  " 

Here  the  writing  ceased  and  the  writer  bowed 
her  head  upon  her  hands, 


THK  MXISHED  WEB.  0 

•  As  I  am  not  trying  to  unravel  a  mystery,  only 
recording  certain  events  in  the  lives  of  the  people 
I  am  writing  of,  I  shall  explain  why  Mrs.  Stan- 
hill,  the  wife  of  a  millionaire,  is  thus  supposed  to 
be  dead  while  she  sits  grieving  in  her  shabby 
room  on  Mission  street. 

When  Mile.  Marie  Le  Martin  was  asked  in 
marriage  by  Valance  Stanhill  of  San  Francisco 
she  was  only  sixteen. 

Her  parents  lived  in  Los  Gatos.  They  accept 
ed  the  offer  immediately,  and  in  a  wonderfully 
short  space  of  time  the  little  unformed  girl  be 
came  the  millionaire's  wife. 

Valance  Stanhill  was  just  thirty-six.  He  had 
made  his  money  and  his  position  for  himself. 
He  was  passionately  in  love  with  his  young 
wife. 

Marie  was  scarcely  fitted  to  be  mistress  of  her 
husband's  fine  home.  She  did  not  care  for  so 
ciety,  her  life  till  she  became  a  mother  was  a 
most  miserable  one. 

At  first  she  had  tried  to  understand  this  man 
who  had  pretended  to  love  her  so,  but  she  finally 
gave  it  up.  She  was  always  obedient  and  quiet. 
Valance  Stanhill  thought  it  right  to  absorb  his 
wife.  She  ceased  to  be  a  daughter,  she  was 
not  allowed  to  visit  her  parents  and  they  were 
not  allowed  to  visit  her.  In  two  years  they  both 
died. 

Valance  StanhilPs  one  intimate  friend  was  a 
Frenchman.  He  spent  a  great  deal  of  his  time 
with  them,  he  was  a  man  of  lax  morals,  and 


10  THE  FINISHED  WKIS. 

thought  it  was  no  dishonor  to  conceive  a  passion 
for  another  man's  wife. 

He  quickly  saw  how  matters  stood  ;  that  Marie 
did  not  feel  that  perfect  love  for  her  husband 
that  "casteth  out  all  fear;"  that  love  which  is 
at  all  times  a  wife's  surest  safeguard. 

lie  won  her  confidence  by  degrees. 

Poor  Marie  believed  him  to  be  a  God-sent 
brother  to  her.  She  took  comfort  in  his  society. 

Her  husband  became  more  and  more  unbear 
able.  He  took  it  for  granted  that  she  would  be 
his  slave. 

Still  Alfred  Critien  did  not  dare  speak  of  his 
love  to  her! 

Valance,  her  second  child,  was  born.  She  be 
came  more  of  a  child-worshipper  than  ever,  all 
her  hopes  were  centred  in  her  little  ones.  If 
she  had  been  permitted  to  nurse  them  day  and 
night  she  would  have  been  satisfied,  but  her  hus 
band  was  jealous  even  of  the  children. 

As  his  wife  she  must  take  part  in  society.  She 
must  parade  her  beauty  and  wear  her  diamonds. 

When  they  went  out  he  was  sure  to  find  some 
thing  to  lecture  her  about.  Then  Alfred  Critien 
would  find  out  all  about  it  and  comfort  her  the 
next  day. 

One  evening  when  little  Val  was  three  months 
old,  Mr.  Stanhill  came  home  earlier  than  usual. 
Entering  with  his  latch  key,  he  went  to  look  for 
his  wife,  as  he  neared  the  sitting  room  he 
heard  voices.  Stopping  cautiously,  he  listened, 
then  applied  his  eye  to  the  key  hole.  He  beheld 


THK  FINISHED  WK15.  1  1 

his  wife  weeping  and  Alfred  Critien  was  kneeling 
beside  her.  He  waited  for  no  more,  he  would 
not  make  a  fool  of  himself,  he  would  not  mention 
what  he  had  seen  to  his  friend.  He  always  be 
lieved  woman  to  be  to  blame  in  such  cases. 

He  went  to  his  room. 

When  Critien  left  the  house,  he  sent  for  his 
wife  and  declared  that  he  £neiu  of  her  dishonor. 
He  further  avowed  his  belief  that  Val  was  not 
his  child.  He  absolutely  refused  to  allow  her  to 
vindicate  herself  in  any  way.  Then  he  said  the 
cruel  words  chronicled  in  her  diary.  She  had 
accepted  them  as  the  death-knell  of  her  earthly 
hope  of  happiness. 

In  after  years  Marie  wondered  that  she  had 
acted  as  she  did. 

She  had  been  so  shocked,  so  dazed! 

In  her  own  sight,  in  the  sight  of  God,  she  knew 
herself  to  be  innocent,  even  in  thought,  but  she 
felt  incapable  of  acting  for  herself.  This  shame 
her  husband  believed  her  to  be  capable  of  was 
such  a  terrible  thing!  The  very  thought  of  it 
made  her  brain  grow  dizzy. 

Then  her  pride  came  to  her  aid.  Yes,  she 
would  go!  God  would  avenge  her  some  da}-. 

Oh,  the  many  miserable  souls  that  are  waiting 
for  that  day! 

She  felt  herself  to  be  a  martyr.  She  took  off 
her  jewels,  and  dressed  herself  in  her  plainest 
dress.  She  went  to  the  nursery  to  kiss  her  chil 
dren.  Baby  Val  was  asleep,  with  his  little  fat 
thumb  in  his  mouth.  She  paused  to  admire  him. 


]'2  1IIK   KIMSIIKD   \VF.M. 

O!  if  she  might  take  him  with  her!  She  gath 
ered  him  in  her  arms  and  started  for  the  door. 
Her  husband  blocked  the  way. 

"Give  him  to  me,"  she  prayed,  "you  have  in 
sulted  him,  too!  " 

But  Valance  Stanhill  only  smiled  scornfully. 

"  No,  that  shall  be  your  punishment.  I  shall 
always  hate  the  boy,  but  you  shall  not  have  him, 
and  neither  shall  his  father!" 

Little  Margaret  ran  up  to  her.  Holding  her 
to  her  heart  she  had  whispered  the  words  the 
child  never  forgot. 

Then  she  left  the  house. 

She  had  now  here  to  go.  No  money  in  her 
pocket.  She  walked  on  and  on. 

She  reached  Market  street.  It  was  crowded. 
Shop  girls  were  hurrying  home.  It  made  her 
more  desolate  to  look  at  them !  She  was  home 
less! 

Finally  she  could  walk  no  further.  Her 
strength  was  leaving  her.  The  world  about  her 
seemed  to  stagger;  she  fainted. 

Three  weeks  later  she  came  to  herself.  She 
was  in  a  hospital.  In  another  week  she  would 
be  turned  out  into  the  world  again.  What  was 
she  to  do?  She  heard  women  talking  near  her. 
They  were  speaking  of  how  hard  it  was  to  get 
help  in  the  country. 

"  Why,"  said  one,  "they  will  take  almost  any 
one  and  never  so  much  as  hint  after  her  refer 
ences!" 

Marie    asked     for    a    newspaper    and     looked 


1'HE  FINISHED  WEI!,  i  •> 

through  the  advertisements.  One  read:  "A 
companion  for  an  invalid  wanted ;  good  coun 
try  home." 

She  obtained  a  postal  card  and  sent  in  an  ap 
plication  for  the  place. 

In  a  few  days  she  received  the  answer.  She 
was  to  apply  on  the  tenth.  That  would  be  the 
day  after  she  should  leave  the  hospital.  She  ask 
ed  to  stay  a  day  longer,  and  was  allowed  to  do  so. 

On  the  day  of  her  departure  she  felt  very  weak 
and  miserable.  When  she  went  to  the  glass  to 
put  on  her  hat  she  hardly  knew  herself.  Her 
hair  was  gray,  her  face  pale  and  thin.  She  was 
no  longer  a  beautiful  woman! 

On  her  way  to  the  Appointment  she  passed  a 
lawyer's  office.  The  sign  read,  "  Consultation 
free."  She  went  in  and  stated  her  case,  only  sup 
pressing  names. 

The  lawyer  told  her  she  could  not  get  her 
children.  Had  she  tried  at  first  she  might  have 
had  the  youngest.  She  had  left  her  husband's 
house.  While  he  could  support  the  children  he 
could  keep  them.  Did  she  want  a  divorce,  and 
what  were  her  grounds  ? 

Her  interview  with  the  advertiser  was  satisfac 
tory,  and  that  evening  she  went  to  a  neighboring 
country  town. 

Her  employer  was  an  old  lady. 

She  stayed  with  her  for  five  years,  then  the 
poor  old  soul  died. 

Marie  returned  to  'Frisco  and  entered  the  hos 
pital  for  trained  nurses. 


14  THE  I  1MS11E1)   \\  Kli. 

She  assumed  the  little  white  cap  and  apron  and 
soon  found  comfort  in  her  work. 

Lately  she  had  left  the  hospital  and  joined  the 
Alpha  Association. 

And  there  we  find  her  in  a  dingy,  cheerless  room, 
a  patient,  gray-haired  woman,  suffering  unmerited 
crucifixion,  as  are  many  others  of  her  sex  to-day. 

Her  desolation  had  not  hardened  her  heart,  she 
did  not  cry  out  "There  is  no  God, "but  something 
ot  the  "peace  this  world  can  not  give"  had  stolen 
into  her  pure  soul,  and  she  lived  for  the  good  she 
might  do. 

CHAPTER  III. 

The  Stanhill  residence  was  abla/e  with  light. 
Miss  Stanhill  was  about  to  celebrate  her  twenty- 
first  birthday. 

The  stately  hall  and  drawing-rooms  were  hung 
with  costly  flowers. 

The  guests,  the  elite  of  'Frisco's  society,  were 
arriving. 

Miss  Stanhill  stood  beside  her  father  receiving 
them,  and  most  beautiful  did  she  look  in  her  gowrn 
of  soft,  creamy  lace. 

Her  father  was  growing  prouder  and  prouder  of 
her  each  day. 

It  was  a  year  since  she  had  returned  to  'Frisco. 
She  was  very  much  "at  home"  now  and  had  a 
great  many  friends  and  admirers. 

Miss  Stanhill  was  a  revelation  to  California 
society.  Not  so  much  because  of  her  exceeding 
fairness,  California  belles  are  always  handsome. 


THE  FINISHED  WEB.  15 

but  here  was  a  millionaire's  daughter  who  took 
pleasure  in  seeing  other  women  shine  socially ; 
who  listened  to  no  scandal ;  who  defended  every 
woman's  good  name.  She  was  not  easily  flat 
tered  ;  took  every  one  good-naturedly. 

Just  how  she  kept  herself  so  pure  and  un 
spotted,  I  do  not  know.  Only  to  look  into  her 
sweet,  serious  eyes  was  a  lesson  in  itself. 

Margaret  was  a  natural  hostess.  She  was  never 
so  much  in  her  element  as  when  helping  people 
have  a  good  time. 

The  ball  was  a  success.  Supper  was  over ;  the 
german  also.  Chaperones  were  beginning  to 
look  tired  behind  their  fans.  Second  and  third 
year  rosebuds  were  hunting  for  their  wraps.  A 
sprinkling  of  debutantes  were  still  dancing  away 
as  if  they  could  never  grow  weary. 

Margaret  was  passing  through  the  hall  when 
she  saw  a  servant  with  a  dispatch  in  her  hand. 
Taking  it,  she  looked  at  the  postmark  and  turned 
pale.  It  was  from  S.  College.  Something  was 
the  matter  with  her  brother ! 

She  hastened  to  find  her  father.  He  was  in  the 
smoking  room.  He  opened  the  telegram  leisure 
ly,  read  it,  then  handed  it  to  her,  seeing  by  her 
face  that  she  expected  it.  It  read  : 

"  Your  son  is  very  much  worse." 

Mr.  Stanhill  left  the  room  and  Margaret  fol 
lowed  him. 

"  You  knew  that  Valance  was  ill,  and  did  not 
tell  me,"  she  said,  looking  steadily  into  his  eyes, 
lie  did  not  answer  her. 


l!>  THE  MNiSHKU  \\  hi'.. 

"  You  will  go  by  the  first  train?  "  she  continued. 

"No!  Why  should  I?  He  has  typhoid  fever, 
and  there  is  danger  of  contagion.  He  is  well 
looked  after.  No  expense  will  be  spared,"  an 
swered  the  father  hurriedly. 

But  Margaret  was  thoroughly  aroused.  She 
said,  sternly: 

"Why  should  you  ?  Because  he  is  your  son. 
O !  how  can  you  think  of  contagion !  If  my 
mother  was  alive  would  she  think  of  it?  You  say 
you  will  not  go.  Very  well,  I  shall  go  myself," 
and  then  she  turned  and  left  the  room. 

Valance  Stanhill  was  completely  surprised* 
This  from  a  little  girl  who  had  never  argued  a 
point  with  him  before. 

Somehow  he  admired  her  for  it,  though.  "  Go 
to  the  college  herself;"  indeed,  she  should  not! 
In  the  morning  he  would  speak  to  her  about  it. 

But  when  the  morning  came,  at  10  o'clock, 
when  he  sent  to  ask  for  an  interview,  he  found 
that  she  had  gone  by  the  7  o'clock  train. 

And  to  his  dispatch  of  "  Return  immediately," 
she  answered : 

"  My  brother  needs  me  and  I  shall  not  leave 
him." 

And  then  was  he  forced  into  submission. 

CHAPTER  IV. 

"  You  will  have  to  get  a  nurse.  You  will  not  be 
able  to  stand  it  day  and  night.  It  will  be  weeks 
before  he  is  better,"  said  the  college  doctor. 


THE  FINISHED  WE15.  17 

Margaret  Stanhill  had  been  three  days  with  her 
sick  brother.  It  was  pitiful  to  see  him  toss  about 
unconscious  of  everything  about  him. 

How  wicked  she  felt  when  she  remembered 
how  she  had  neglected  her  mother's  last  re 
quest  so  long.  Of  course  it  had  not  been  her 
fault  entirely,  but  she  should  have  asserted 
herself  long  ago. 

Poor  Valance!  How  big  and  black  his  eyes 
were !  So  like  their  dead  mother's.  Suppose  he 
should  die!  Would  that  mother  forgive  her? 

She  did  not  want  a  nurse.  She  would  take 
care  of  him  herself.  But  of  course  she  would 
break  down  if  she  didn't  have  one.  She  had 
promised  God  to  devote  herself  to  Valance  if 
only  his  dear  life  was  spared  her,  and  she  would 
do  it.  Her  father  should  be  forced  to  do  his 
duty,  or  answer  to  her  for  it. 

So  a  message  was  wired  by  the  doctor  to  the 
Alpha  Association  of  trained  nurses  in  'Frisco, 
and  God  allowed  it  to  be  Marie  Stanhill,  or  Mrs. 
Hill,  as  she  was  called,  who  was  the  nurse  se 
lected  to  be  sent. 

And  O!  how  the  mother  thanked  God  for  this 
privilege.  To  be  near  her  boy  in  his  last  mo 
ments  ;  or  it  He  saw  best,  nurse  him  back  to  life. 

But  could  she  stand  it  thus  to  be  near  her 
darlings  and  not  cry  out  her  claim  upon  them  ? 
Yes,  for  their  sakes  she  felt  that  she  could.  It 
would  be  best  for  them  not  to  know.  They  be 
lieved  her  to  be  dead,  and  it  would  do  no  good 


VS  mi-:  I'lxi.sUKi)  \VKI;. 

to  undeceive  them.     She  was  old,  and  they    did 
not  know  her.     She  could  bear  it. 

When  she  first  beheld  her  little  Pearl,  so  glo 
rious  in  her  pure  young  womanhood,  the  good 
ness  of  her  soul  looking  from  her  eyes,  that  gave 
her  courage.  She  could  have  knelt  at  her  feet, 
but  she  could  not  tell  her  that  her  mother  had 
been  suspected  of  evil-doing  by  her  father  and 
driven  from  his  home.  Innocent  as  she  knew 
herself  to  be,  she  could  not  tell  her.  Besides  she 
had  no  proof  of  her  innocence.  And  then  her 
daughter  might  not  believe  in  her. 

The  hardest  part  of  her  trial  came  when  she 
stood  beside  the  bed  of  her  baby,  her  darling 
Val.  To  see  him  toss  with  pain,  and  not  be  able 
to  gather  him  into  her  arms!  Not  be  able  to 
kiss  his  parched  lips  !  O,  it  was  so  bitterly  hard  ! 

But  her  face  was  calm,  and  she  listened  silently 
to  her  daughter's  orders.  She  was  cautioned 
to  take  care  of  her  own  child;  "O  Nurse!" 
cried  Margaret,  "only  help  me  bring  him  back 
to  health,  and  there  is  nothing  I  will  not  do  for 
you!" 

Thus  together  did  mother  and  sister  care  for 
poor,  lonely  Val,  while  the  days  and  weeks  pass 
ed  by.  Such  days  and  weeks  they  were  to  the 
poor,  mother!  So  full  of  anxiety  for  the  sick 
boy,  and  so  precious  because  spent  near  her  dar 
ling.  She  thanked  God  again  and  again  that  she 
was  permitted  to  know  what  a  grand  woman  her 
little  Pearl  had  become! 

Margaret  grew  very  fond  of  the  quiet  nurse. 


i  Hi:  i- 1 Msin-:n  \VKIJ.  19 

How  pleasant  it  would  be  to  have  her  for  a  com 
panion  ;  she  spoke  to  her  about  it. 

"I  have  no  real  triend,"  she  said;  "money 
does  not  buy  affection.  I  feel  that  I  could  trust 
you  so." 

One  day  the  doctor  said  that  at  4  o'clock 
the  next  morning  the  patient  would  gain  con 
sciousness,  and  be  either  very  much  better  or 
sink  rapidly;  it  was  the  turning  point  of  the 
disease. 

"Of  course  I  shall  take  the  second  watch," 
said  Margaret,  as  the  doctor  left. 

At  midnight  she  came  into  the  sick  room  and 
kindly  but  decidedly  dismissed  the  nurse.  With 
not  a  word  she  was  obeyed. 

Once  in  her  own  room,  the  mother  threw  her 
self  upon  her  knees  to  pray  for  her  boy.  Sleep  ! 
Ah !  when  can  a  true  mother  sleep  when  her 
child  is  in  danger. 

The  hours  finally  passed.  It  was  half  after 
three ;  she  felt  that  she  must  go  to  her  child. 
What  if  he  should  be  dying !  She  wrung  her 
hands  in  anguish. 

Noiselessly  she  entered  the  sick  room.  Be 
side  the  bed  Margaret  was  fast  asleep — nature 
had  proved  too  strong  for  her. 

The  mother  went  to  the  sick  boy,  and  her 
practised  eye  noted  the  change.  He  was  better. 
He  stirred  feebly,  and  opened  his  eyes,  a 
wan  smile  came  to  his  lips,  and  he  whispered, 
"Mother!" 

-With  a    great  effort   Marie  controlled    herself 


•jo  i  in-;  i  iMsiiKD  \vi:n. 

and  gave  him  sonic  water.  As  her  hand  touch 
ed  his  he  turned  and  kissed  it. 

"  You  were  dreaming,"  she  faltered.  Only 
God  knew  how  hard  it  was  to  say  it. 

"  Of  my  dead  mother,"  he  answered  in  a 
weak  voice.  Then  he  smiled  and  fell  asleep 
like  a  tired  child. 

Margaret  awoke  with  a  start.  "  He  came  back 
to  me  and  I  was  asleep!  Is  he  better?  O,  will 
he  live?"  she  cried  brokenly. 

"He  is  better,  dear,"  the  nurse  said  gently; 
"he  will  live,  thank  God." 

Then  something  made  Margaret  put  her  arms 
around  the  nurse,  and  together  they  mingled 
their  tears  of  thankfulness. 

One  week  later  the  nurse  left  quietly  without 
receiving  her  wages. 

Very  much  distressed  Margaret  sent  her  a 
check  for  $500.  in  care  of  the  Alpha  Associa 
tion  ;  she  also  asked  for  her  address.  The 
matron  wrote  that  Mrs.  Hill  on  receipt  of  money 
had  left  the  citv. 

CHAPTER  V. 

Mr.  Valance  Stanhill  sat  reading  a  telegram 
he  had  just  received  from  his  daughter.  It  ran 
thus : 

••  Have  things  ready  for  us.  We  will  arrive 
to-night.  Meet  us  at  the  depot." 

During  the  last  few  weeks  he  had  been  bat 
tling  with  himself.  How  should  he  act?  He  could 


THE  FINtSllEL)   \VhlI.  21 

not  refuse  to  be  civil  to  this  boy  whom  he  had 
acknowledged  as  his  son  without  giving  a  rea 
son  for  it.  He  simply  would  not  tell  Margaret 
her  mother's  miserable  story.  Her  mother  whom 
she  believed  to  be  dead.  She  might  demand, 
proof  of  what  he  said;  he  had  not  waited  for 
proof.  Margaret,  his  own  darling,  might  hate 
him!  How  she  had  spoken  to  him  that  night! 

He  had  admired  her  for  it.  "A  chip  of  the 
old  block,"  he  said  to  himself.  Yes,  he  must 
give  in  to  her,  he  must  be  civil  to  the  boy. 

He  would  soon  be  well  enough  to  return  to 
school.  He  would  send  him  abroad  as  soon  as 
possible. 

So  he  ordered  the  carriage  and  was  at  the 
depot  in  time  for  the  arrival. 

******* 

All  the  devotion  of  Margaret's  heart  seemed 
to  centre  itself  upon  her  brother.  She  made  her 
sitting  room  into  a  bed  room  for  him,'  and  wait 
ed  upon  him  night  and  day.  She  thought  noth 
ing  too  good  for  hie  use. 

And  how  poor,  lonely  Val  loved  her!  He  had 
always  hungered  for  affection ;  it  was  such  joy 
to  feel  himself  the  object  of  some  one's  considera 
tion.  He  grew  to  depend  more  and  more  upon 
her. 

•She  gloried  in  the  fact. 

Margaret's  character  had  developed  wonder 
fully  of  late.  She  succeeded  with  her  father  in 
a  most  remarkable  manner.  She  simply  took  it 


22  1  Hi;   1  IMM1KD  \VEI5. 

for  granted  that  Yal  was  his  lir.st  consideration, 
that  he  desired  nothing  so  much  as  his  happiness. 

Mr.  Stanhill  found  himself  acting  the  part  of 
a  devoted  father.  His  motives  were  of  a  mixed 
nature,  to  begin  with  he  must  stand  well  with 
Margaret,  and  again  he  believed  all  women  to  be 
fickle.  She  would  tire  of  such  sisterly  devotion 
after  a  while. 

But  as  time  went  on  she  did  not  tire.  She 
treated  Val  as  her  own  child.  He  had  been  neg 
lected  so  many  years,  she  must  make  it  up 
to  him  all  she  could  now. 

The  young  man  felt  his  father's  coldness. 

"  He  does  not  care  for  me,"  he  would  say  sad 
ly,  "  but  I  can  bear  it  while  I  am  with  you." 

Then  brave  Margaret  would  show  her  affec 
tion  more  than  ever. 

Society  was  greatly  concerned  at  Miss  Stan- 
hill's  seclusion,  several  heiress-seeking  young 
men  particularly. 

Mr  Stanhill  remonstrated  with  her  himself,  but 
was  convinced  when  she  put  her  arms  around  his 
neck  and  said : 

"  You  want  me  to  be  happy,  don't  you,  dear? 
You  don't  want  to  marry  me  off  like  most  fathers 
\vouldr  '' 

Among  Margaret's  few  intimate  friends  was 
little  Ida  Madden.  Just  why  they  were  intimate 
was  a  puzzle  to  many.  Perhaps  the  girl's  timid 
blue  eyes  told  of  an  unloved  life,  the  life  of  an 
orphan  spent  with  relatives  who  WI-IT  not  over 
kind  to  her. 


11  IE  FINISHED  WEB.  23 

Margaret's  big  heart  reached  out  after  her,  and 
she  never  lost  an  opportunity  of  displaying  her 
feelings. 

So  it  came  to  pass  that  Ida  spent  a  great  deal 
of  her  time  at  the  Stanhill  residence. 

At  first  Val  was  much  embarrassed  when  she 
came  near  him.  Although  past  eighteen  he 
knew  very  little  of  young  ladies.  Little  sixteen- 
year-old  Ida  was  very  gentle,  so  he  soon  forgot 
to  be  afraid. 

Her  millionaire  uncle's  home  was  not  altogether 
a  satisfactory  one.  The  ladies  of  the  family 
were  society  women,  they  devoted  their  time 
to  amusement,  were  very  handsome,  and  rather 
despised  the  little  unformed  girl  who  had  been 
forced  into  their  home.  It  was  a  source  of  im 
mense  surprise  to  them  that  the  elegant  Miss 
Stanhill  should  think  so  much  of  her.  They 
were  prepared  to  be  intimate  with  Margaret 
themselves,  but  she  displayed  her  preference  in  a 
most  decided  manner,  and  sent  invitations  to 
Ida  only. 

CHAPTER  VI. 

Val's  health  did  not  improve ;  in  spite  of  all 
Margaret's  care  he  was  no  better.  He  had  been 
at  home  for  four  months.  In  May  the  doctor  or 
dered  valley  air. 

A  house  at  San  Rafael  was  immediately  secur 
ed  and  the  motherly  Margaret  began  to  make  all 
ready  for  their  departure.  A  few  days  before 


•21  THE  FINISHED  WEt?. 

they  left  she  noticed  how  sud  little  Ida  was  look 
ing.  Why  should  she  not  take  her  with  them, 
the  poor  little  dear? 

"Val,  dear,"  she  said,  "would  you  mind  if  I 
asked  Ida  to  spend  the  summer  with  us?  She 
looks  so  lonely." 

Val  answered  in  rather  a  shame-faced  way. 
Why  should  he?  In  truth  he  was  rather  glad  than 
otherwise,  only  he  did  not  care  to  say  so  just  then. 

So  the  invitation  was  given  and  Ida  was  made 
completely  happy. 

Mr.  Stanhill  was  altogether  displeased  with  the 
proposed  removal.  He  wanted  Margaret  to  go 
to  Long  Branch  with  him.  She  put  an  end  to  his 
hope  when  she  said  : 

"Val  is  not  well  enough  for  such  a  trip.  Next 
year  we  will  go." 

She  evidently  did  not  intend  to  ^be  separated 
from  her  darling. 

The  trip  from  'Frisco  to  San  Rafael  is  at  all 
times  a  very  charming  one.  In  May  it  is  some 
thing  never  to  be  forgotten. 

Over  the  bay,  surely  the  loveliest  bay  in  the 
world,  in  the  ferry-boat  to  Sancelito,  a  little  town 
that  nestles  in  the  foothills,  thence  by  rail.  Such 
a  wealth  of  green  hills,  studded  with  brilliant  wild 
Mowers ;  such  broad  pastures  covered  with  graz 
ing  cattle.  Then  grand  old  Tamalpais  mountain 
is  before  you. 

San  Rafael  should  be  called  "  City  of  Roses." 
Nowhere  in  California  are  these  "queens  of  the 
garden"  more  abundant.  They  are  not  satisfied 


THE  FINISHED  \VK1!.  '2 it 

with  being  stately  bushes  ;  they  become  gigantic 
monuments.  "  Lady  Banks  "  creep  to  the  roof 
of  the  tallest  houses.  Pink,  white  and  golden 
beauties  climb  to  the  tops  of  the  highest  trees, 
iind  even  then  throw  out  their  aspiring  branches 
as  if  they  longed  to  go  higher.  The  air  is  laden 
with  their  perfume. 

The  place  the  Stanhills  had  taken  was  a  real 
paradise.  A  Queen  Anne  cottage,  surrounded  by 
sloping  lawns  and  an  ideal  flower  garden.  There 
were  tiny  summer  houses  here  and  there,  covered 
with  roses.  From  its  front  gallery  could  be  seen 
old  Tamalpais. 

"A  bit  of  heaven,"  said  Margaret,  as  they  en 
tered  the  house.  "  You  surely  will  get  well  here, 
Val  darling." 

And  Val  sighed  contentedly,  and  Ida  flitted 
about  like  some  happy  butterfly. 

Val  found  in  her  another  slave.  She  amused 
him  quite  as  much  as  Margaret  did,  and  then  he 
felt  so  manly  when  he  was  with  her.  She  had 
little  confiding  ways  that  appealed  to  him ;  in 
short,  Val  fell  in  love  for  the  first  time  and  Ida 
was  affected  in  the  same  manner. 

Such  delightful  times  they  had,  all  three  of 
them.  They  drove  for  miles  and  miles  and  ram 
bled  over  the  hills,  and  as  Val  grew  stronger  they 
rode  horseback,  and  thus  the  summer  passed. 

Mr.  Stanhill  had  gone  to  Long  Branch  alone 
and  his  children  did  not  miss  him. 

The  first  of  September  came  and  Margaret  was 
beginning  to  get  ready  for  a  return  home. 


Till-:    !•  IM.sIIKI)   \\  HI1.. 

Little  Ichi  felt  low-spirited  and  her  laugh  grew 

less  frequent. 

Val  began  to  wonder  how  it  would  feel  not  to 
have  her  near  him  all  the  time. 

One  evening  Margaret  had  left  the  children  (as 
she  called  them)  alone.  She  had  letters  to  write. 

Feeling  herself  much  missed,  she  hurried 
through  with  her  letters  and  in  an  hour  went  to 
join  them.  They  had  retreated  to  one  of  the  rose 
houses,  and  she  playfully  decided  to  surprise  them. 
As  she  peeped  into  the  little  house  a  surprise 
awaited  her,  for  there  sat  her  "children"  with 
their  arms  about  each  other  in  a  true-love  fashion. 
Their  attitude  was  not  to  be  mistaken,  they 
seemed  blissfully  contented. 

Margaret  slipped  gently  away.  "The  two 
babies!  Bless  them  !  They  shall  tell  me  of  their 
new-found  happiness  themselves." 

Margaret  had  never  dreamed  that  they  would 
fall  in  love  with  each  other,  she  thought  so  lit 
tle  of  such  things  herself.  What  could  have  put 
such  a  notion  into  their  silly  heads!  Then  the 
more  she  thought  of  it  the  more  natural  it  seemed. 
They  were  both  her  darlings,  they  should  get 
married,  after  a  while,  of  course.  And  then  this 
God-meant  mother  went  to  building  air  castles  in 
which  her  babies  were  to  live. 

At  dark  they  came  to  look  for  her,  to  tell  her 
all  their  hopes.  They  found  her  with' wide-open 
arms  waiting  for.  them. 

"  Of  course  it  will  be  ages  before  I  can  have  a 
wife,"  Yal  said  in  a  manly  voice.  "  1  suppo.se  I 


THE  FINISHED  WKU.  '21 

shall  go  back  to  school,  or  maybe,  you  can  per 
suade  father  to  give  me  a  position.  You  will 
look  after  Ida  for  me,  won't  you,  Madge?  " 

CHAPTER  VII. 

In  a  week  they  returned  home. 

Margaret  decided  to  keep  the  youthful  engage 
ment  quiet  for  a  while.  It  was  -such  a  holy  thing 
in  her  sight.  They  both  looked  up  to  her  and 
agreed  to  everything  she  said. 

Val  began  to  weaken  again,  and  his  sister  grew 
anxious.  The  best  physicians  in  California  were 
summoned  to  consult  regarding  his  case. 

When  they  told  her  the  truth.  Margaret  felt  as  if 
her  heart  would  break,  her  dear  boy  was  dying  of 
consumption !  Then  she  grew  calm.  His  remain 
ing  life  on  earth  must  be  made  perfectly  happy. 

She  told  her  father  of  the  doctor's  verdict,  also 
of  Val's  engagement  to  little  Ida.  He  did  not 
object  when  he  saw  she  meant  the  marriage  to 
take  place. 

All  knowledge  of  the  boy's  condition  was  kept 
from  him  and  from  his  little  sweetheart. 

Margaret  arranged  everything. 

The  millionaire  uncle  gave  a  glad  consent.  A 
handsome  trousseau  was  provided  and  a  very 
quiet  ceremony  took  place. 

How  happy  the  young  pair  were!  They  talked 
joyfully  of  the  future.  "  I  will  soon  be  well  now," 
Val  would  say. 

No  trouble  ever    came    near   them.     Margaret 


28  i  MI;  i  iM.siihi)  \\  KI;. 

watched  over  them  as  a  mother  over  her  little 
children,  she  seemed  a  part  of  their  love  dream. 

After  a  while  they  had  a  secret  to  confide. 
"Val's  baby!"  What  a  wonderful  creature  it 
would  be ! 

Margaret's  heart  was  filled  with  rapture ;  it 
would  give  her  something  else  to  live  for.  It  was 
her  hands  that  fashioned  the  tiny  garments  which 
the  little  stranger  was  to  wear.  How  tenderly 
she  sewed  on  the  soft  lace  that  was  to  touch 
the  dainty  throat. 

And  when  the  tiny  thing  was  born,  only  to 
close  its  little  eyes  in  death,  it  was  Margaret  who 
grieved  most  for  it.  The  child-mother's  tears 
were  soon  dried,  the  future  looked  bright  to 
her.  Margaret  alone  knew  of  the  coining 
shadow. 

At  last  it  came,  and  Val  knew  that  he  must  go 
into  another  world. 

"  I  can  hardly  believe  it,  though,  I  really  feel 
better,  I  am  not  afraid.  O!  Madge,"  he  said, 
"you  have  been  so  good  to  me!  I  shall  tell 
mother  all  about  it.  You  will  take  care  of  my 
little  wife." 

CHAPTER  VIII. 

Margaret  was  turning  from  the  family  tomb 
where  her  young  brother's  body  had  just  been  put 
away  to  rest.  Her  heart  was  full  of  desolation,  in 
her  eyes  there  was  such  supreme  grief  that  no  one 
of  all  that  vast  company  of  people  about  her  dared 
approach  her.  Her  father  had  left  home  a  month 


THE   FINISHED  WEI!.  29 

ago.  Margaret  felt  that  he  had  gone  on  purpose 
to  miss  being  present  at  Val's  death-bed.  One 
by  one  the  friends  of  the  family  withdrew.  Mar 
garet  turned  to  enter  her  carriage ;  the  old 
family  coachman  stood  with  a  sorrowful  face 
holding  the  door  open  for  her.  There  was  noth 
ing  more  she  could  do  for  her  darling  here. 

The  child  widow  was  waiting  for  her  at  home ; 
she  must  go  and  comfort  her. 

As  she  turned,  a  hand  was  placed  upon  her  arm  ; 
it  was  the  woman  who  had  nursed  Val  at.  the  col 
lege,  Mrs.  Hill.  She  was  evidently  bearing  a 
great  cross  of  sorrow,  also ;  she  was  draped  in 
mourning  as  heavy  as  her  own.  She  felt  that  she 
must  comfort  her;  she  said  nothing,  but  bent 
and  kissed  her  cheek  and  drew  her  into  the  car 
riage.  Marie  could  not  resist ;  she  would  go  with 
her  daughter,  cost  what  it  would. 

As  the  carriage  went  through  the  city,  these 
two  women  sat  silently  holding  each  other's 
hands.  When  the  house  was  reached  Margaret 
spoke  for  the  first  time. 

"It  will  comfort  me  if  you  will  come  in  for  a 
few  moments.  Val's  wife,  poor  little  child  !  " 

Without  a  word  Marie  Stanhill  followed  her 
child  up  the  marble  steps  into  the  home  from 
which  she  had  been  so  cruelly  driven  in  years 
gone  by.  It  was  no  trial  to  her,  her  son's  death 
had  numbed  her  heart,  she  no  longer  suffered 
anything. 

Margaret  took  her  into  her  own  room.  Ida 
was  asleep,  they  would  see  her  later, 


:',n  mi;  i-i 

"  O,  Mrs.  Hill,  I  can  not  explain  it,  but  it  com 
forts  me  to  be  near  you  !  Can  you  understand  it :' ' 

Then  she  told  her  all  her  sorrows.  Of  Val's 
life  and  love  ;  of  the  little  baby  who  came  and 
went,  and  of  her  grief  when  it  died. 

"I  felt  as  my  mother  would  have  felt,"  Mar 
garet  said  ;  "perhaps  her  spirit  grew  through  me." 

Marie  Stanhill  listened,  and  her  heart  grew 
heavier  each  moment.  Finally  she  could  stand  it 
no  longer  and  nature  came  to  her  relief:  she 
fainted. 

Margaret  was  stricken  with  remorse ;  dear,  ten 
der  Margaret.  How  she  accused  herself!  How 
selfish  she  thought  herself!  This  poor  soul  had 
a  sorrow  of  her  own,  and  she  had  not  stopped  to 
inquire  into  it. 

She  put  her  upon  her  own  bed  and  gave  her 
restoratives. 

When  the  mother  opened  her  eyes  her  child 
was  bending  over  her. 

"  O,  do  forgive  me,  Mrs.  Hill,  for  being  so 
selfish  in  my  grief,  and  tell  me  of  your  troubles 
that  I  may  comfort  you." 

From  that  clay  a  light  came  into  Marie  Stan- 
hill's  darkened  life.  A  friendship  was  cemented 
between  the  two  whom  God  had  joined  together 
by  the  closest  and  holiest  tie  on  earth  or  in  heaven. 

Marie  went  back  to  her  life  as  a  nurse;  she 
did  not  come  again  to  her  daughter's  house,  but 
Margaret  visited  her  each  Sundav,  and  oh, 
what  joy  those  visits  were  to  the  lonely  mother. 

Together  thev  visited  Yal's  vesting  place, 


THE  Ki\isiu:i>  WE  r>.  31 

"  Somehow  I  feel  better  when  you  are  here  with 
me,"  Margaret  said  one  evening  as  they  left  the 
cemetery.  "Why  am  I  so  sure  of  sympathy?" 

Of  her  own  grief  Mrs.  Hill  would  not  speak, 
and  with  ready  tact  Margaret  discovered  that  such 
was  the  case. 

Val's  widow  became  drawn  to  his  sister  each 
day.  Mr.  Stanhill  proposed  settling  a  handsome 
income  upon  her,  and  allowing  her  to  return  to  her 
uncle's  home,  but  Margaret  refused  indignantly. 

"She  shall  stay  with  me  till  she  asks  to  leave," 
she  said.  "As  to  an  income,  my  own  is  enough 
for  both  of  us." 

After  her  first  grief  had  passed  away,  the  girl- 
widow  became  happy.  Margaret  induced  her  to 
study  and  practise,  and  after  a  while  to  go  into 
society,  Margaret  acting  the  part  of  a  mother  to 
her  always. 

CHAPTER  IX. 

"Why  do  I  not  marry?"  answered  Margaret 
reflectively.  She  was  seated  in  Mrs.  Hill's  quiet 
little  room.  Five  years  had  passed  since  her 
brother's  death.  Time  had  only  increased  her 
beauty,  her  sweet,  serious  eyes  were  sweeter 
and  more  serious  than  ever. 

It  was  Sunday  afternoon,  she  still  spent  those 
hours  with  her  "friend."  They  were  discoursing 
herself. 

"You  should  marry,  Margaret,"  Mrs.  Hill  had 
said;  "  you  are  lonely.  Tell  me  why  you  havt 
never  married  ?  " 


"-!  THE  FINISHEP  WEI?. 

"  I  don't  think  I  can  exactly  tell  you,  dear 
friend,"  Margaret  said  after  a  pause.  "I  have 
never  thought  much  of  marriage  in  connection 
with  mvself.  I  have  received  offers  of  marriage, 
and  I  have  several  real  friends  among  the  men  I 
know,  but  I  have  never  cared  more  for  one  of 
them  than  another.  And  indeed  I  am  not  lonely. 
Since  dear  little  Ida  married  I  have  been  just  a 
bit  alone,  but  never  lonely.  Ida's  husband  is  a 
lovely  man,  I  think,  and  a  very  good  one,  too,  if  I 
am  any  judge  of  men.  He  will  be  good  to  her. 
Perhaps,  if  Val's  baby  had  lived  I  might  not  have 
rejoiced  so  much  in  her  marriage,  but  she  was  so 
young,  and  then  my  father  never  made  her  wel 
come.  I  don't  think  he  wants  any  one  but  me." 

"  I  have  notions  of  my  own  about  marriage," 
continued  Margaret  after  a  while.  "If  I  had  a 
husband  he  must  do  something  besides  love  me. 
He  must  make  me  love  him.  He  must  command 
my  respect  and  admiration,  and  must  be  real 
enough  to  keep  them.  He  must  teach  me  to  un 
derstand  and  appreciate  him.  I  don't  believe  in 
slavery  of  any  kind,  he  must  acknowledge  me 
his  equal.  He  must  command  my  sympathy,  I 
must  feel  about  him  in  this  way: 

O  noble  soul,  whose  strength  like  mountains  stand, 
Whose  purposes,  like  adamantine  stone 

Bar  roads  to  feeble  feet,  and  wrap  the  land 
IP.  sunny  shadow,  thou,  too,  hast  thine  own 
.Sweet  valleys  full  of  flowers,  for  me  alone, 

Unseen,  unknown,  undreamed  of  by  the  mass 

Who  do  not  know  the  secret  of  the  Pass. 

"  Shall  I  find  this,  do  you  think?"  asked  Mar 
garet  with  a  smile. 


THE    FINISHK1)    WEB.  33. 

Her  mother's  eyes  were  full  of  tears. 

"  Men  can  be  faithful ;  there  is  my  father,  for  in 
stance  ;  my  mother's  memory  is  so  precious,  so 
sacred  to  him  that  he  can  never  bear  to  speak  of 
her.  Something  makes  me  stop  when  I  begin  to- 
speak  of  her.  I  suppose  her  dear  body  rests  in 
the  family  tomb,  but  there  is  no  inscription,  I 
suppose  father  could  not  bear  even  that.  My 
father  is  a  most  peculiar  man  ;  even  his  love  for 
me  does  not  make  me  forget  his  want  of  love  for 
poor  Val.  The  one  redeeming  point  in  his  whole 
nature  to  me  is  his  reverence  for  my  mother's- 
memory." 

Those  hours  spent  with  her  child  were  life, 
heaven,  to  the  silent,  suffering  mother.  When 
Margaret  first  began  to  come,  she  said  to  herself : 
"She  will  soon  tire  of  me;  it  will  be  natural. 
What  have  I  to  interest  her?"  So  she  calmed 
her  delight ;  but  she  was  mistaken,  Margaret 
did  not  tire  of  her. 

There  was  a  fascination  about  this  white-haired 
woman  that  she  could  not  withstand  :  not  that  she 
tried  to,  it  seemed  natural  to  love  her.  Some 
thing  in  her  sad  eyes  recalled  that  which  she  could 
not  remember.  Something  there  was  in  her  kiss 
which  seemed  to  beg  for  recollection. 

"  Dear  Mrs.  Hill,"  she  said  in  the  early  days  of 
their  friendship,  "perhaps  it  was  in  another  world 
that  I  knew  and  loved  you,  you  seem  to  have  a 
right  to  my  affection.  My  feelings  for  you  are 
not  like  new  feelings,  rather  like  a  continuation, 
of  something  I  have  felt  before.  If  my  mother 
3 


.".4  THE    FINISHED    WKB. 

\vas  alive  I  might  not  care  so  much  for  you  ;  it  is 
hard  to  be  motherless." 

When  Marie  Stanhill  was  certain  ot  her  child's 
love,  the  temptation  became  stronger  than  ever 
to  tell  her  the  truth,  but  she  did  not  yield  to  it. 
No.  it  was  best  as  it  was.  What  more  did  she 
want?  Her  child  loved  her  as  her  most  intimate 
friend,  she  confided  her  whole  heart  to  her,  and 
asked  her  advice  in  everything. 

She  even  called  her  "  little  mother"  in  a  tender, 
playful  way.  It  would  be  easy  to  turn  her  heart 
from  her  father  now — should  she  thus  revenge 
herself  upon  the  man  who  had  been  so  hard  and 
cruel  to  her?  He  had  taken  her  child  from  her, 
and  should  she  take  her  from  him  now?  No!  she 
would  not  do  this.  She  must  be  entirely  worthy 
of  her  daughter,  nothing  mean  should  dwell 
within  her  heart.  She  remembered  a  poem  Mar 
garet  had  read  to  her — Margaret  was  so  fond  of 
poetry — it  was  Helen  Hunt  Jackson's  "  Blind 
Spinner.  "  How  her  darling's  voice  had  thrilled 
her  as  she  read  : 

"  The  bond  divine  I  never  doubt, 
I  know  He  set  me  here  and  still 
And  glad  and  blind  I  wait  If  is  will, 

But  listen  day  by  day 
To  hear  their  tread 

Who  bear  the  finished  web  away 
And  cut  the  thread 

And  bring  God's  message  in  the  sun, 

Thou  poor  blind  spinner,  work  is  done.  " 

Marie  StanhilFs  nature  had  never  become 
seared  by  her  sorrows.  Then  her  daily  life 
among  the  sick  and  suffering  was  so  full  of  les- 


THE    FINISHED    WEB.  35' 

•sons.  Never  did  her  sympathy  fail  those  to 
whom  she  ministered ;  sufferers  read  sincerity 
in  her  gentle  gaze.  She  did  not  weary  of  their 
complaints;  she  tried  always  to  comfort  them, 
each  was  to  her  a  little  child  ;  her  motherhood 
folded  around  them  like  a  mantle  of  protection. 
She  would  bathe  a  burning  head,  or  hold  a 
a  fevered  hand,  and  for  that  moment  was  the 
mother. 

One  day  Margaret  went  in  search  of  her  friend 
at  the  hospital.  She  was  directed  to  the  woman's 
ward.  Stopping  at  the  door  she  watched  her  for 
a  moment  without  making  her  presence  known. 

In  her  arms  Marie  held  a  new-born  babe,  she 
was  warming  it  against  her  breast,  and  she  was 
speaking  to  the  young  mother.  Margaret  drew 
near  that  she  might  listen  to  what  she  was  saying. 
In  after  years  the  sweet  picture  often  came  to  her 
and  she  would  thank  God  for  having  been  per 
mitted  to  see  it. 

"You  must  not  be  blue,  dearest,"  Marie's  ten 
der  voice  was  saying.  "You  will  soon  be  well, 
God  will  give  you  back  your  strength,  and  you 
must  fight  against  evil  for  the  little  one's  sake  as 
well  as  your  own.  " 

"  What  can  I  give  it  but  a  home  among  the 
foundlings?"  the  young  mother  answered  bitterly. 
"  It  would  be  better  off  dead." 

Then  Marie  spoke,  and  her  whole  soul  came 
into  her  face.  Such  tender  words  Margaret  had 
never  dreamed  of,  she  longed  to  kneel  at  the 
white-haired  woman's  feet  as  she  listened. 


36  THE    FINISHED    WHB. 

"  God  doesn't  intend  you  to  be  wicked.  This 
He  gives  you  as  a  token  of  his  love  ;  this  little 
white  soul  just  from  His  soul.  It  is  left  to  you  : 
you  may  have  its  love.  O.  my  child,  do  not 
desert  it!" 

As  the  young  mother  looked  wistfully  at  her, 
the  baby  began  to  cry.  She  opened  her  arms  and 
the  nurse  placed  it  upon  her  breast. 

Turning  awav  Marie  saw  her  child. 

"  O,  Mrs.  Hill,  I  have  heard  your  beautiful 
words,  and  I  love  you  for  them  ;  love  you  more 
than  ever,  you  sweet,  tender  mother.  She,"  con 
tinued  Margaret,  ''shall  be  added  to  my  list." 

Margaret  Stanhill's  list  was  a  long  one.  HIT 
wealth  never  went  to  public  charities,  she  pre 
ferred  a  quiet  mission.  Through  her  friends  she 
heard  of  many  cases  in  which  little  interest  was 
felt  bv  the  outside  world. 

••  Are  you  troubled  to-day  that  you  came  look 
ing  for  me?"  asked  Marie  with  a  loving  smile,  as 
she  went  with  Margaret  to  a  quiet  part  of  the 
ward. 

"  Yes,  I  am  going  east  to-morrow,"  said  Mar 
garet  sadly.  "  My  father  insists  that  I  must,  and 
I  don't  want  to  go.  I  am  growing  to  be  an  old 
woman,  I  dislike  to  have  my  life  disturbed.  If 
you  were  only  going  with  me,  then  half  of  the 
battle  would  be  over;  I  think  it's  leaving  you 
that  makes  me  hate  to  go  so  badly." 

Then  Marie  began  to  cheer  her,  although  her 
own  heart  was  heavy  at  the  thought  of  their 
separation. 


THK    FtMSHKD    WEB.  37 


CHAPTER  X. 

Three  months  later  Margaret  Stanhill  again 
sat  in  her  own  room,  after  a  return  from  the  east, 
but  no  loneliness  lies  about  her  heart  to-day.  A 
wonderful  thing  has  happened  to  her  during  these 
last  three  months.  Love  has  crowned  and  per 
fected  her  womanhood.  She  had  met  William 
Kingsley  at  a  reception  a  few  days  after  her  ar 
rival  in  New  York;  there  had  immediately 
sprung  up  a  feeling  of  interest  and  sympathy  be 
tween  them.  They  met  almost  every  day,  and 
the  feeling  of  interest  and  sympathy  grew  into 
real  friendship,  and  a  warmer  feeling  soon  fol 
lowed.  Margaret  had  gone  to  Long  Branch. 
Kingsley  remained  in  New  York.  A  short  sepa 
ration  revealed  their  real  feelings  for  each  other. 
When  the}r  met  again  each  read  love  in  the 
other's  face  and  an  engagement  followed.  There 
had  been  no  hesitation  about  Margaret,  she 
answered  her  lover's  call  gladly. 

Mr.  Stanhill  could  offer  no  objection  to  his 
daughter's  choice  ;  Mr.  Kingsley  was  well  born, 
well  bred,  and  stood  at  the  head  of  his  profession. 
Margaret  accepted  her  happiness  thankfully. 
Only  one  thing  seemed  necessary  to  complete  it, 
<ind  that  was  to  receive  the  congratulations  of  her 
dear  friend,  Mrs.  Hill.  There  had  been  no  time 
to  write  of  the  engagement ;  she  was  glad  there 
had  not  been  ;  the  telling  of  it  would  be  so  much 
sweeter. 


449909 


38  THE    FINISHED    WKB. 

It  was  Sunday ;  she  waited  anxiously  for  the- 
hour  when  she  might  go  to  her  clear  friend. 

"  You  are  pale,"  exclaimed  Margaret,  after 
their  first  embrace  ;  "you  have  been  ill  and  did 
not  tell  me  of  it." 

"Nothing  of  any  consequence,"  answered' 
Marie  quickly.  "  I  shall  be  all  right  now  that 
you  are  back  again,  how  wonderfully  well  you 
look!"  The  mother-eye  saw  that  something  had 
come  to  her  darling. 

With  a  girlish  blush  Margaret  told  her  secret.. 
and  then  her  happiness  seemed  complete. 

Another  week  rolled  by  and  Margaret  was- 
again  seeking  her  friend's  home  on  Mission 
street.  She  had  been  so  happy  all  the  week.  To 
morrow  her  "  King"  was  to  arrive!  Her  heart 
beat  with  anticipated  joy:  when  next  she  took 
this  trip  he  would  walk  beside  her ;  she  felt  a 
strong  desire  for  her  lover  and  her  friend  to  know 
each  other. 

CHAPTER  XI. 

Arriving  at  the  house  where  her  friend  lived 
Margaret  entered,  and  ran  upstairs.  She  met 
no  one  ;  a  stillness  pervaded  the  house.  Reach 
ing  the  door  of  her  friend's  room  she  knocked  ; 
receiving  no  answer,  she  opened  it  and  walked 
in.  There  sat  her  friend  by  the  table;  her  white 
head  bowed  upon  it.  With  a  quick  movement 
Margaret  reached  her  side. 

"Mrs.  Hill!  Little  Mother!  What  is  troub 
ling  you  ?  "  she  cried. 


THK    FINISHED    WEB.  39 

Great  Heavens!  She  has  fainted,  thought  Mar 
garet,  putting  her  hand  upon  her.  She  was  very 
cold.  She  was  dead.  In  her  hand  she  clutched 
a  pen  ;  an  ink-stand  had  been  upset,  and  its  con 
tents  had  trickled  on  the  table  and  dropped  to 
the  floor.  Margaret  lifted  her  head ;  it  rested 
upon  a  little  open  book.  She  had  been  writing. 
Tenderly  she  drew  the  little  book  out  and  glanced 
at  the  last  words.  It  seemed  right  for  her  to 
know  what  her  dear  friend's  last  thoughts  had 
been.  She  read: 

"  O,  my  Margaret;  mother's  little  Pearl! 
Mother  is  thankful  for  your  happiness." 

Mechanically  she  turned  to  the  first  page  of  the 
little  book.  It  contained  these  words  : 

"  Private  Journal  of  Marie  Stanhill.  To  be 
read  by  my  children,  Margaret  and  Valance, 
after  my  death.  " 

For  a  moment  Margaret  could  not  think :  her 
brain  seemed  in  a  whirl.  Was  she  mad  ?  She 
read  the  words  again.  Then  she  could  only  think 
of  one  thing,  that  before  her  sat  her  mother 
whom  she  had  believed  to  be  dead  all  these 
years.  Her  revered  mother.  Silently  she  knelt 
at  her  feet,  it  seemed  the  only  thing  she  could 
do.  She  asked  for  nothing  else  at  that  moment. 

Then  she  remembered  the  last  time  she  had 
seen  her  mother,  and  how  clearly  she  heard  her 
parting  words. 

"Mother!  Mother!  "  she  cried;  then  tears 
came  to  relieve  her,  and  she  sank  sobbing  upon 
the  floor.  To  die  thus  unhappy  and  alone!  O, 


40  THK    KINISHKI)    WKK. 

had  God  no  power  that  He  refused  to  let  her 
know  in  some  way?  She  had  been  lost  in  her 
own  love  dream  while  her  mother  had  been  drop 
ping  her  head  upon  the  table  in  death.  Now 
her  place  was  here  at  her  feet. 

"O.  darling,  why  did  you  not  give  me  one  lit 
tle  sign  all  these  vears?  "  she  cried. 

Then  she  remembered  how  she  had  been  im 
pelled  to  love  her  when  as  a  nurse  she  stood 
beside  Yal's  bed  at  the  college,  and  how  her 
presence  had  comforted  her  at  his  grave.  O,  how 
she  blessed  God  for  the  instinct  which  had  not 
let  her  throw  away  this  precious  mother. 

Sweet,  noble  Margaret!  No  doubt  arose  in 
her  heart  of  her  mother's  perfect  worthiness ; 
there  was  some  terrible  reason  for  her  being 
here,  for  having  left  her  children  ;  for  living 
under  an  assumed  name,  but  she  was  not  to 
blame  for  it.  She  thought  of  her  father.  Was 
he  innocent  also?  If  he  had  caused  her  mother 
to  suffer  she  would  punish  him  for  it.  She  would 
avenge  her  mother. 

She  arose  from  her  knees  and  taking  the  cold 
form  in  her  strong  young  arms  put  it  upon  the 
bed ;  then  kissing  the  icy  lips  she  caressed  her 
mother  reverently.  She  must  read  this  little 
book  :  every  word  of  it.  So  she  seated  herselt 
beside  the  bed  and  opened  it.  It  was  told  in  a 
few  words ;  this  story  of  woman  crucifixion.  A 
man  had  suspected  a  woman  of  wrong  doing; 
had  accused  her  of  dishonor;  had  deprived  her 


THE    FINISHED    WEB.  41 

-of  her  children  :  had  driven  her  from  home;  had 
not  allowed  her  to  defend  herself. 

That  man  was  her  father  ;  that  woman  her 
mother!  .She  read  the  words:  "  I  swear  before 
•God,  my  children,  that  I  was  innocent  of  even  a 
wrong  intention."  Ah!  her  mother  had  no 
need  to  take  such  an  oath.  She  would  have 
believed  her  under  any  circumstances.  One 
thought  alone  came  to  Margaret  when  she  had 
learned  all  the  book  contained,  she  must  take 
her  mother  back  to  the  home  from  which  she  had 
'been  driven.  A  great  strength  came  to  her,  she 
turned  and  looked  at  the  clock,  she  had  been 
here  an  hour.  No  one  knew  this,  however;  she 
must  act  as  if  she  had  just  arrived.  Putting  the 
little  book  in  her  pocket,  and  the  pen  her  mother 
had  last  touched  also,  she  wiped  as  well  as  she 
could  the  ink  from  off  the  table.  She  wanted  it 
to  appear  as  if  her  mother  had  died  in  bed.  Then 
she  went  into  the  hall  and  called  for  aid. 

"My  friend  Mrs.  Hill  is  unconscious;  send 
quickly  for  a  doctor  ;  her  doctor  if  you  know 


When  the  doctor  arrived  he  said:  "  She  is 
dead.  I  am  not  surprised  ;  a  few  weeks  ago  I 
told  her  how  it  would  be.  It  was  heart  trouble." 

"  Can  you  prevent  an  inquest?  Can  you  give 
a  certificate  of  burial?"  Then  Margaret  gave 
him  her  mother's  real  name.  It  was  soon 
arranged,  and  an  undertaker  prepared  everything. 

In  two  hours  Margaret  followed  the  hearse 
bearing  her  mother's  remains  ;  it  was  taken  to  the 


42  THE    FINISHED    WKB. 

Stanhill  residence.  Margaret  entered  the  house 
and  ordered  the  drawing-room  to  be  opened.  In 
a  few  moments  more  Marie  Stanhill  lay  in  state 
in  the  handsome  apartment. 

CHAPTER   XII. 

Valance  Stanhill  was  hurrying  home  in  answer 
to  a  telephone  from  his  daughter ;  as  he  reached 
the  gate  he  saw  the  crepe  hanging  upon  it.  In  a 
moment  he  stood  beside  Margaret. 

"I  have  found  my  mother,  and  have  brought 
her  home,"  was  all  she  said. 

Valance  Stanhill  staggered  ;  then  the  old  feel 
ing  of  anger  came  back  to  him.  "  Haw  dared 
you?"  he  cried.  ll  She  is  unfit." 

But  Margaret  silenced  him.  "Stop,  stop !  " 
she  cried  ;  "  say  one  word  against  her,  and  I  will 
strike  you !  She  is  my  mother,  and  one  of  God's 
holiest  martyrs." 

She  put  her  hand  in  her  pocket  and  drew  from 
it  the  little  book. 

"  Read  this !  You  do  not  deserve  it.  I  only 
give  it  to  you  that  your  punishment  may  begin." 

He  took  it  and  turned  to  leave  the  room. 

"  Understand,  once  for  all,  that  I  believe  everv 
word  of  it,"  she  cried. 

»  *  *  *  «•  *  * 

•The  hour  for  the  funeral  was  approaching ; 
crowds  of  people  were  flocking  to  the  house.  A 
notice  of  the  death  of  Marie,  wife  of  Valance 
Stanhill,  was  inserted  in  the  paper  at  Margaret's 


THE    FINISHED    WEB.  4.V 

command.     Such  a  mystery!     How    society  did 
wonder  and   talk. 

Margaret  sat  by  her  mother's  coffin,  draped  itv 
deepest  mourning ;  .beside  her  stood  her  be 
trothed  ;  he  had  arrived  the  day  before.  Mar 
garet  had  explained  things  briefly  to  him. 

"  If  you  dislike  what  I  have  done,"  she  said1 
proudly,  "you  can  leave  immediately."  His 
only  answer  had  been  to  take  her  in  his  arms.. 
Together  they  had  gone  to  the  silent  mother. 

"Mother,"  said  Margaret  pitifully,  "this  is  my 
husband.  O,  mother,  I  am  not  mistaken  in  him  I 
Look  down  from  heaven  and  bless  him."  Then 
he,  whom  she  loved,  bent  and  kissed  the  deadi 
woman's  lips. 

Valance  Stanhill  had  not  been  seen  ;  he  was  in 
his  room.  People  continued  to  whisper  and  won 
der.  The  minister  arrived,  he  assumed  his. 
flowing  vestment,  and  entered  the  room,  the- 
ceremony  was  about  to  begin.  At  that  moment 
the  bowed  figure  of  the  master  of  the  house  en 
tered  the  room  and  came  and  stood  beside  the 
coffin.  He  looked  at  the  white  face  with  its 
crown  of  snowy  hair,  then  knelt  beside  it.  He 
paid  no  attention  to. the  curious  people. 

"Marie,"  he  whispered,  "Marie,  my  wife, 
forgive  me  I  O,  forgive  me!"  He  bowed  his 
head  and  began  to  sob. 

Margaret  went  to  him.  "Father,"  she  whis 
pered,  "you  are  forgiven,  look  at  her  face." 

He  looked  and  was  comforted. 

All  the  sadness  and  pain  seemed    to   have   left 


44  TIIK  I.-IMSIIKO  \VKR. 

the  dead  woman's  face,  and  a  sweet,  peaceful 
smile  had  spread  itself  over  her  features.  And 
the  people  looked  and  wondered. 

The  old  family  vault  w.as  opened  and  Marie 
Stanhill's  coffin  was  placed  beside  that  of  her 
son's. 

As  the  last  bit  of  plaster  was  put  on  the  open 
ing,  Valance  Stanhill  stepped  forward  and  picked 
up  a  piece  of  stone,  and  with  it  wrote  on  the 
soft  surface: 

"Marie,  beloved,  honored  wife  of  Valance  Stan- 
hill." 

Thus  was  the  last  thread  cut  in  the  web  of 
Marie  Stanhill's  life,  and  she  received 

"  God's  message  in  the  sun, 

Thou  poor  blind  spinner,  work  is  done." 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


Form  L9-42m-8,'49 (65573)444 


;empel  - 


2919     The  finished 
S26fweb. 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACIL  TY 


AA    001219613   5 


O   01CMQ 


PS 

2919 

S26f 


UCLA-Young  Research  Library 

PS2919   .S26f 

y 


ii  i   i   ••    •••••• 

L  009  603  232  1 


